


Viper In Tall Grass

by Johaerys



Series: More Than Might Be Wise: Dorian & Tristan Trevelyan [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - The Witcher Fusion, Anal Sex, Art, Blood and Injury, Cover Art, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Inspired by The Witcher, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Romance, Smut, Violence, Witcher AU, Witcher Contracts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22838611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys
Summary: Tristan of Toussaint is a witcher, his life dedicated to following the Path of the Viper. It is curiosity more than anything that leads him to Emperor Emhyr var Emreis's court. That is where he meets Dorian Pavus, lead sorcerer and advisor to the crown of Nilfgaard, and his life as he knows it changes for good.They say that destiny is inexorable. Tristan is starting to see the wisdom in that saying.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan, Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Series: More Than Might Be Wise: Dorian & Tristan Trevelyan [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1423345
Comments: 24
Kudos: 44





	1. The Emperor's Advisor

“You are the witcher?”

Tristan glanced over his shoulder at the man who had spoken. He was a tall fellow, the black and white Nilfgaardian uniform he was wearing crisp and freshly pressed. He had a receding hairline and the skin on his face was dark and leathery, his lips pressed in a tight line, a hint of contempt lingering in his mousy brown eyes. He looked more like a tired, middle aged servant rather than Emperor Emhyr’s personal steward, like Tristan had been told he would meet.

He turned unhurriedly away from the crackling fire in the hearth, crossing his now well warmed arms before his chest. “You’re the footman?”

The man’s mouth twisted in a disgusted frown before he spun on his heel. “I am Var Heid, the Emperor’s steward. The Emperor is ready to receive you.”

“About bloody time,” Tristan muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Var Heid to hear him. If he had, he showed no sign of it.

The palace of Vizima was a large fortress, one of the largest Tristan had seen in a while. Labyrinthine, too; had his witcher training not given him an extraordinary sense of direction, he was sure he would have been lost three times over. Even so, he wasn’t entirely certain he could find his way to the nearest exit, not without having to knock down a wall or two.

He followed the man through the twisting corridors of the palace, his tough leather boots sinking in the plush carpet along the stone floor, letting his gaze sweep over the shining sets of armour and the paintings hanging on the high walls. When Tristan had arrived to the palace to hand in the notice he had found on the nearest village’s board, the sun had been just past the middle of the sky. Now, the snow on the western mountain tops was tinged pink and gold as the sun set, and the dancing light of torches cast eerie shadows on the walls as he walked. Tristan disliked waiting, and he had done his fair share of it ever since stepping foot in that place. The way the steward was walking now, with slow and leisurely movements, he suspected it would be well after nightfall when he would finally be done with this entire affair. So much for being curious, he thought, scowling at himself.

The servant soon led him to a small, winding staircase, at the foot of which he turned around to give him a quick lookover. His nose wrinkled more and more as his eyes trailed from his hair, hanging loosely about his shoulders, to his leather armour that had definitely seen better days, and lastly to his boots that were caked in mud.

“Your appearance is displeasing to the eye,” he said in a heavy Nilfgaardian accent that did nothing to hide his disgust. If anything, it highlighted it even more. “Under any other circumstances, I would have requested for a bath, a shave, a haircut and a change of clothes before presenting you to the Emperor. Alas, time is of the essence.”

“What’s wrong with my hair? Or my clothes, for that matter?”

A flash of amusement sparked in the man’s eyes. “They are… how do you say in your tongue… unseemly? Uncouth? Barbaric? Not to mention probably infested with lice.”

Tristan shrugged, scratching the light stubble on his cheeks. “Been on the road a while. Can’t be helped.”

“I suppose not.” The servant drew himself up with a sharp sniff. “May I at least ask whether you know how to address the Emperor?”

“Your Royal Magnificence, perhaps? Or your Majestic Brilliance?” Tristan said with a bored frown. He had been at this for hours and could already feel a warm dinner and a bed calling him.

The man sniffed again, more loudly this time. “I see you are in the mood for jests. I’m afraid the Emperor does not share your disposition. “Your Majesty” will suffice.”

“Fine,” Tristan grunted, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? Don’t have all bloody day.”

Var Heid made a small noise that sounded oddly like a harrumph and turned around, ascending the stairs. The guards at the door parted to let him pass, and he walked in with slow, steady footsteps, his back straight like he had swallowed a broomstick.

Tristan followed behind him, eager to get this done and over with.The room he stepped in was spacious, the carpets lining the floor rich and well made. The thread of gold tapestries on the wall glittered in the last light of the waning sun that streamed in through the tall stained glass windows, the rays dissolving in an array of warm colours. The man sitting on the gilded chair behind the large mahogany desk with the graying hair, the stately demeanour and the hawk-like eyes would have to be the Emperor. No doubt about that.

Var Heid had already started announcing his arrival in Nilfgaardian, his tone even and wooden as if he were reading from a book, when Tristan’s gaze fell on the man standing just a little way behind Emhyr, and his mouth almost fell open.

Tall, dark, imposing. Skin like burnished copper, rich and smooth like velvet. Black hair combed neatly in glossy waves, framing a face that should have belonged to a work of art. High cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes the colour of polished silver, a strong nose, a moustache perfectly curled, expertly shaped to highlight full, honey coloured lips. The black robe he was wearing was similar to those Tristan had seen a hundred times since stepping foot in that palace -the Nilgaardians were notorious for their love of uniformity- , yet on that man it looked… different. Elegant. Regal. _Striking_. Just a tad tighter along the chest and arms, the fabric on the shoulders arranged in such a way to leave a swath of skin exposed, the thread of gold and tiny pearls embroidered along his collar a touch more extravagant than perhaps expected. And the way he held himself, that proud tilt of his chin, those long, beringed fingers resting lightly against his folded arms, the quirk of his eyebrow, the glint in his eyes as they took him in, lazily gliding from his face, to his armour, to his mud-caked boots and up again. A slight curve at the edge of those luscious lips, and Tristan suddenly wished for the floor to split in two and engulf him.

There he was, in a room with the Emperor of Nilfgaard and the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes upon, and he looked like something that had crawled out of a bog. Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful.

Var Heid cleared his throat behind him before doubling over in a deep bow, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Bow,” the man hissed.

It took great effort not to roll his eyes and grit his teeth as Tristan bent in a bow. Not quite as deep as Var Heid’s, and definitely not as refined as somebody’s who had spent their entire life bowing and scraping. But good enough.

He straightened awkwardly, trying his best to fix his gaze on the Emperor instead of on the man behind him. The Emperor of Nilfgaard’s gaze was just a tad less unnerving.

“Tristan of Toussaint?” Emhyr said slowly, as if trying to examine the truth of his statement. Tristan nodded. The Emperor’s eyes stayed on him for a long moment before a slight flick of his wrist sent Var Heid and the guards scrambling out of the room. The heavy doors closed firmly behind them, leaving Tristan alone with the Emperor and the strange man next to him.

Tristan drew himself up, taking advantage of every inch of his height, returning Emhyr’s scrutinizing stare levelly. It was evident that the man let the silence stretch to unsettle him, but he was a witcher. Witchers owed meek submission to no king, especially not Emhyr, who had all but declared witchers of his School enemies of Nilfgaard a few years before.

“Tales of you have spread far and wide,” Emhyr said slowly. “It is not common for a witcher’s name to be spoken so frequently. What brings you here?”

Tristan leaned on his back leg, hooking his thumbs behind his belt. “You put up a notice, searching for a witcher. Heard you’ve seen half a dozen, but sent them all away. Got curious. Came here to see for myself what the fuss is all about.”

The dark haired man behind the Emperor let out a soft exhale, that sounded like a breathy chuckle. Tristan gritted his teeth even harder, not taking his eyes away from Emhyr.

“This is Dorian Pavus,” Emhyr said, waving absently towards the man. “He is lead sorcerer and adviser to the throne.”

Tristan let his gaze drift to him, just in time to see his lips quirk in a tiny smirk as he gave him a short bow with his head. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, master… witcher,” he purred in a voice that slid down Tristan’s spine like warm, spiced honey. Damn him, was there anything about him that wasn’t perfect?

His jaw clenched so hard, he was sure he must have cracked a couple teeth. “Likewise,” he said in a clipped tone, returning to Emhyr. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I would like to know what you want of me. The day isn’t getting any younger, and if my skills are not satisfactory for your quest, I’d like to be on my way before dark.”

The Emperor didn’t seem insulted by Tristan’s curt tone. He leaned back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, forefinger brushing against his thumb. “I believe my adviser will be able to explain things much better than I could.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Pavus took a small step forward. “The quest you would be asked to undertake is of a highly confidential, and highly risky nature. If you accept to take this quest, you will be bound by an oath of secrecy and loyalty to the crown of Nilfgaard.”

“Witchers are bound to no king or county, or any oaths they would seek to impose. Witchers owe allegiance only to their respective schools. This is known.”

“It is indeed,” the mage replied in a calm and unaffected tone, as if he had fully expected his answer. “Yet, this is no ordinary contract. It is not about killing drowners or collecting water hag blood for hexes or whatever it is you witchers do these days.”

Tristan scowled at the man, annoyance flaring in his chest. “I hear a lot about what this contract is not, but not near enough about what it actually is. Care to enlighten me, or are we simply going to dance around it for another day or two?”

The mage’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Master Witcher is impatient, I see. Very well, let’s get straight to the point.” He drew himself up, clasping his hands behind his back. “The creature you are required to exterminate is a Fiend.”

Tristan’s mouth went dry. Fiends were walking mountains of muscle capped with horned, tooth-filled heads. Their size alone made them extremely dangerous – one blow from their powerful paws could kill a knight along with his fully armored mount. Their enormous heft also made them invulnerable to most signs; even witchers that had spent their lives specializing in the use of Aard, able to summon small windstorms at will, could not move a Fiend even an inch. They were quick, agile and inventive, and their wounds healed at lightning speed, yet all that was nothing compared to their true threat; the third eye located in the center of their forehead. A burning, watchful eye, meant to draw the Fiend’s prey into a state of hypnosis.

_Hypnosis is the state of loss of control and consciousness, in which the person loses the power of voluntary action and sense of direction. During these times their victim does not see anything beyond this single burning eye – the last thing they see before their death._

The bestiary entry came to his mind unbidden, the contents of its pages etched into his brain ever since he was a child. He gave Pavus a hard look under furrowed brows. This had been a waste of time after all. “Are you out of your mind?” he said, huffing a scornful laugh. “You would need at least three witchers to take down a beast such as that, not to mention an entire apothecary’s worth of ingredients to make the bombs and oils needed.”

“You can have as many apothecaries' worth of ingredients as you require. Yet I’m afraid that recruiting more witchers won’t be possible. The fewer people that know about this the better.”

“Then you can forget about it,” Tristan said. “There’s no way you will convince any witcher to take on this quest alone.”

Pavus’ lips curled in a smile. “Who said anything about being alone?” Tristan just blinked at him, and the mage’s smile got wider.

Emhyr shifted on his chair. “One of the terms of your contract is that Lord Pavus will be accompanying you to kill this beast. He will assist you in killing it, yet you are bound to keep him safe from harm and bring him back to Vizima after the quest has been completed.”

Tristan paused for a moment, his gaze shifting from Pavus to Emhyr and back. He crossed his arms before his chest, considering. “Where is that Fiend?”

“There have been sightings of one near Velen. In Crookback Bog.”

Crookback Bog. As dark, dank and treacherous a place as any there were. Tristan’s eyes narrowed in thought. The help of a mage would be significant when taking on that Fiend. Pavus seemed powerful enough. Tristan could just about feel his magic reaching him, rippling in the air around him. Were Tristan a mage he would have been able to gauge exactly how powerful his spells could be. Yet, even with the vague knowledge he had at that moment, he could tell that the man was a force to be reckoned with.

Still. Tristan was supposed to kill a Fiend, _and_ keep the mage safe. Impossible.

“How much?” he asked the Emperor. The least they could do for asking him to do the impossible was make it worth his while.

“One thousand gold pieces.”

“Five thousand.”

The Emperor’s gaze flashed with something akin to indignation. He obviously wasn’t used to people bartering with him. “Three and a half.”

“Five,” Tristan said again, his tone even and flat. Emhyr’s lips tightened in a line, and Tristan shook his head. “You want me to kill a Fiend, a beast that no one has been known to defeat in at least two centuries, as well as be your sorcerer’s glorified wet nurse? You’ll have to pay for it. No way around it. Your Majesty,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Emhyr’s hand tightened in a fist, and he took a sharp breath. “Very well,” he assented curtly. “Five thousand gold pieces it is. But know this, witcher; if you don’t bring either the Fiend or my sorcerer back, it will be your head.”

“You said you’ve heard about me,” Tristan said. “Then you surely know that I always keep my word once I give it.”

The Emperor regarded him for a long moment, so long in fact, that Tristan thought he had swallowed his tongue. In the end, he waved him away tiredly and sank back in his chair. “My steward will draw up the contract for you. It shall be ready tomorrow morning, before you leave. You are dismissed.”

The contract, written in neat, precise letters, had been just as rigid and binding as Tristan had expected it to be. He would receive half the gold before leaving for his quest, and the rest after he had returned with both the Fiend and the mage. It was an odd contract, to say the least, but Tristan wasn’t a stranger to odd situations. He had seen his fair share of them, travelling through the Continent. At least this one promised to be quite lucrative.

He mulled over his conversation with the Emperor the previous evening as he made his way to the stables. The stables the Nilfgaardians had put his horse in were warm and spacious, with clean hay and fresh water. The stableboys seemed skilled enough, but Tristan wouldn’t trust his mount to just about anyone.

Almond tossed her head back when she saw him, neighing gently. Tristan pulled a piece of dried apple from his pocket and gave it to her, idly brushing her coat as he formulated a meticulous plan in his mind. When travelling for a quest, details were important; which road to take to avoid the bandits lurking in the woods close to Velen, how many days would be needed to reach his destination, how many bombs and potions he would need to make. One of the first things a witcher was taught before hitting the road was how to plan ahead. _An unprepared witcher is a dead witcher, or nigh on as good as one_ , was what Heir, his mentor ever since he was a child, would have said about then. She certainly had a lot of opinions when it came to proper preparation.

Tristan had just about finished saddling Almond when a smooth voice behind him drew his attention.

“A beautiful horse,” Pavus said. “Never seen the like.”

Tristan shot him a glance over his shoulder. He was dressed in practical travelling clothes, that still managed to be flashy somehow. The stout black woolen cloak he was wearing was decorated with thick white fur around the collar and his boots that peeked under the hem of his robe were made of soft black leather, with coiling and twisting snakes carved along the sides. His cheeks were flushed from the crisp morning air, but other than that he looked as formidable and his expression as unreadable as any mage Tristan had met. They were a troublesome, secretive lot, to say the least, and most of them weren't particularly fond of witchers, so far as he was aware.

“Wouldn’t expect you to,” Tristan replied, fastening the last hook on Almond’s saddle, testing the girth one final time. “Her breed is native to Toussaint.”He caught her reins and gently led her out of the stall. Pavus’ eyes glided over him again, and this time Tristan returned his look calmly. His armour had been cleaned and mended, and he did manage to have a bath and shave the previous night. Var Heid wouldn’t let him get into bed unless “any and all pests were eradicated”, as he had said.

Pavus walked beside him, nodding to the stable boy who followed them with his own horse readied and saddled. It was a beautiful steed, its dark coat glistening in the grey morning sun, the thick muscles of its chest rippling as it moved. It was strong and looked agile enough to be ridden into battle, if it had been trained for it. Heir had often insisted that he have a horse like that. _Your horse is pretty_ , she would say, _but witchers have no need for pretty horses_. Tristan believed that, too. Yet letting go of Almond was not something he was ever about to do, at least not willingly.

He threaded his fingers through her buttery white mane before placing his foot on the stirrup.

“I didn’t know witchers to be sentimental.”

Tristan froze, his brows furrowed in a perplexed frown. “Huh?”

Pavus smiled at him as he gracefully climbed on his horse, his cloak falling softly around its trunk. “You’re from Toussaint. Your horse is from Toussaint. Is that a mere coincidence? Or a way for you to remember home, perhaps?” He kicked his horse forward, hardly waiting for an answer.

Tristan scrambled hastily onto his saddle, urging Almond to a canter until she reached Pavus’ horse. “Witchers have no home,” he said flatly.

“You say that,” Pavus said with some amusement, “yet you’re the one sporting a regular courser when you should have had a charger, or a destrier, to say the least.”

“She’s not just a ‘regular’ courser,” Tristan grumbled, frowning at the derision in his tone. “She’s…”

She had been a gift from his twin sister on their twentieth birthday. Witchers didn’t usually have any connection to family after taking up their training, especially not those of his School. Heir would certainly be displeased if she ever found out that he still kept contact with them, and even visited his sister from time to time. He wasn’t about to say all that to a sorcerer he had just met, though, and who looked overly eager to get under his skin.

He closed his mouth, staring stubbornly ahead of him, over Almond’s ears. The mage chuckled softly. “No answer to that, I see. Interesting. I maintain my original observation, then. You _are_ sentimental for a witcher.”

“And you are very talkative for a mage,” Tristan retorted irritably. “I thought your kind wouldn’t even deign to talk to someone who “collects water hag blood for hexes”, or whatever it is you think witchers do, unless someone held a knife at your throat. Perhaps not even then.”

Pavus threw his head back, his silvery laughter cutting through the crisp morning air. “Knives? Ha! Who would use a knife against a mage? Even witchers can’t be _that_ coarse.”

Tristan glared at him. “What did you just say?”

“Is the master witcher’s hearing impeded? Has he lost that as well as his ability to reason? Perhaps it’s all that hair.” He reached out, gently brushing Tristan’s hair behind his ear. “There. That’s better.”

Tristan blinked at him for a moment, startled by the unexpected touch. He tried to ignore the odd, tingling sensation that spread down his spine at the lingering feeling of the mage’s gloved fingers on his skin as he scowled at him. “My ears are fine. Yours won’t be for long if you keep at this.”

Pavus batted his long, black eyelashes at him. “Oh? What will you do to them, pray tell? If you must know, I quite enjoy ear massages. You can bite them, too, if you’d like. Not too hard, mind you. Or I might bite back.” He flashed him a wide, teasing smile as he kicked his horse to a trot, riding ahead of him once more.

Tristan just stared after him and the snow that his horse’s hooves kicked in his direction, his mouth slightly agape. When his tongue had been sufficiently frozen by the biting chill, he snapped his jaw closed, muttering curses under his breath. Were all mages that mouthy? And if not, had he been fool enough to agree to a quest with the only one?

As the hours dragged on, with Tristan rocking on his horse and Pavus talking his ear off, he was convinced that he was, in fact the mouthiest mage in the Continent. Tristan was used to the endless days of travel and the infinite hours of silence that these ensued - often spending days at a time talking only to Almond. There were moments when the silence sounded deafening in his ears. It wasn't unusual for him to wish for some company during those quiet moments.

Oh, how he missed those moments now.

The mage talked as the expansive orchards around Vizima gave way to the green, rolling hills of Temeria. He talked as the rolling hills descended into dense, forested land. He kept on talking as the woods became sparser the closer they rode to the swamps of Velen. Tristan did his best to reply to Pavus' quips and jokes as laconically as he could, hoping his half hearted grunts would hide the flush that often crept up his cheeks at his blatant teasing and flirting.

Flirting. How long had it been since anyone had flirted with him? Far too long, obviously, if a mere glance, a smile or an accidental touch whenever they stopped to water their horses or set up camp could make heat flare in his chest like that. Most people in their right minds didn’t want much to do with witchers, staying well out his way unless they absolutely had to. Tristan was used to the curses muttered through tight lips, and the fearful glances, and the invocations to Melitele or whichever god they prayed to as soon as he turned his back. It didn’t irk him much anymore. It was better when people were afraid of him; it made his work easier. Simpler. He would get the job done, get paid, and get on his way. Getting too attached to anyone, or any place, was never a good thing.

He was accustomed to all that. Marginally comfortable with it, even. What he wasn’t accustomed to was… him.

Pavus never missed a chance to talk, or touch or be overly familiar with him. Worse, he showed no fear or apprehension whatsoever, as if his being a witcher was a mere trait to be overlooked. Tristan had met hundreds of people in his life - those that didn’t see him as a freak or an emotionless killer he could count on the fingers of one hand. It was odd, to not be regarded like that for once. More than odd it felt… exhilarating.

Which was a dangerous feeling to have, especially when it regarded the advisor of the Emperor of Nilfgaard. Tristan always sought to keep his affairs simple, neat, tidy, and this was proving to be anything but that. He had been given a task; kill the Fiend and bring the mage back, and that was what he intended to do. _All_ he intended to do, in fact.

Thus, he resolved to avoid the mage as best he could. He would keep his responses short and curt, and every night when they stopped to make camp, he would tend to Almond or pretend to keep watch a little further away from the fire until Pavus retreated under his bedroll.

The third night they had camped together was much like the others. Tristan had spent an inordinate amount of time tending to Almond, or making sure his snares were set up just right, yet he had returned to the fire to find Pavus still up. He was reading from a thick, leather-bound tome, his eyes swiftly following the letters on the page. Those silver, glittering eyes snapped up to his face when he walked within the dancing halo of the fire.

“Taken care of business so quickly? That’s a first.”

Tristan grunted as he sat cross legged before the fire, fishing his flask out of his pocket.

“What is that? Whisky?”

“Brandy,” Tristan responded. “From Aedirn.”

Pavus let his book fall closed and shifted a little closer. “Aedirn? You have very fine taste. Have you tried Kaedweni brandy? It’s even better. Here, have some,” he said, taking a flask out of his own pocket and extending it to him.

Tristan shook his head sharply, staring at the fire. From the corner of his eye, he saw the mage shrugging and uncorking his flask. The smell of the brandy reached his nostrils, as well as the scent of Pavus’s cologne, drifting towards him with the wind. His witcher senses tingled and focused, zooming in to a sharp point. Smell of oakmoss and sandalwood, cardamom and cloves, mingled with something deep and earthy and slightly musky, emanating from those pulse points in his throat and his wrists. Tristan took a deep breath, letting that intoxicating scent fill his lungs. He swallowed thickly when he realised his mouth was watering.

He clenched his jaw, taking a long sip from his flask. It was just a smell. He could ignore it, if he tried hard enough. He had been trained since childhood to ignore far more aggravating situations. It took a few minutes that seemed never-ending, yet he somewhat managed to get the unruly thoughts under control.

To his dismay, the mage cleared his throat, glancing his way again. “Been to Velen before?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Several times, I gather. You seem to know the way rather well.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are there lots of beasts there to be killed?”

Tristan simply shrugged.

Pavus leaned back on his elbow upon the covers of his bedroll, shifting his half lying body to face him. His head was cocked to the side, the shifting light of the fire illuminating the soft, delicate skin of his neck. It felt to Tristan that if he focused enough, he could see his life essence pulsating under that soft, velvety skin, feel the energy that was vibrating in his body. A spark, bright and unexpected, flared in his chest. He frowned, stomping it down tenaciously.

“I never knew travelling like this could be so wearisome,” Pavus sighed. “Want to know what I miss the most?”

“A comfortable bed?” Tristan asked before he could stop himself. “Or a warm bath? I know I would miss those.”

“Wrong on both accounts. Although I wouldn’t say no to either. Especially the latter.” He smoothed his long fingers through his dark, glossy waves, staring wistfully at the fire. “I rather miss the bards in the palace. They always played the most wonderful songs after the evening meal. Perfect to talk and drink some fine wine over.” He tipped the mouth of his flask over his lips, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His slender, delicate throat. How Tristan wanted to brush his thumb over the sides of that long, elegant neck. Then slowly run his tongue over those tendons, follow them until they led him to the dip in his collarbone. Then he would work each button of that snug coat of his free, and then…

_Stop. Looking!_

Tristan bit his lip as he glanced at his boots, pretending to pick at their buckles. Suddenly, the mage’s eyes sparked, a huff of excitement rushing past his lips. “Oh, but what am I saying? Who needs a bard when I have a witcher? And not just any witcher. The infamous Tristan of Toussaint."

“I would hardly call myself infamous.”

“Wouldn’t you? There isn’t one person in Vizima that doesn’t know about you preventing the assassination of the Duchess of Toussaint. Or about your slaying of that basilisk that terrorised Ellander for months, all on your own. You must have all sorts of stories to tell.”

Tristan grunted, staring at the fire as he sipped on his brandy.

“Come now,” Pavus pleaded, his voice soft and sing-songy. “Tell me a story, oh broody one.”

Tristan frowned at him. “I am not brooding.”

“Very well, scowling in a very attractive manner, then.” Tristan rolled his eyes, and the mage’s smile got even wider. “Just one teeny, tiny story. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“How would you do that exactly?”

“There are a couple ways that spring to mind,” he replied, wiggling his eyebrows at him. “Care for me to... elaborate?”

Tristan’s cheeks shouldn’t have felt as hot as they did with the unspoken promise in his gaze. His pulse shouldn’t have quickened either at the sound of his honey smooth voice, lowering to almost a purr. He gritted his teeth. “No. No stories.”

The mage sighed, yet still he didn’t give up. “Alright, then. What if I promise to tell you something, too? Tit for tat, if you will.”

Tristan’s focus snapped to him. “Like what?”

Pavus’s eyes sparked with amusement at having drawn his attention. “You haven’t really asked me anything since we set off. Aren’t you interested to know why I had to come with you? Or why the Fiend needs to be killed?”

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “I thought this was confidential information.”

“It is,” he shrugged. “As you can see, I am _that_ desperate for some entertainment.” His gaze slid slowly from his face all the way down his torso, as if peeling his armour off, layer by layer.

Tristan’s hand curled into a fist around the mouth of his flask. What was the man doing, teasing and flirting with him so… so… shamelessly? Were all mages the same way? He was infuriating. What was even more infuriating was that his breeches now felt way tighter than they did a few moments before.

“Witchers don’t ask questions,” he said flatly, pushing down the wave of warmth that rushed through him. “A monster needs to be killed, we kill it. After the pay has been negotiated.”

“Are all witchers so diligent and focused as you are, I wonder? Or is it just your School?”

“There aren’t many of us left.” Tristan thumbed the amulet hanging by his neck, the viper head cold to the touch. “Besides, even if there were, I can’t talk for anyone other than myself.”

Pavus regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, his features unusually serious. “Perhaps it is just you, then.” He took a small swig from his flask, his gaze fixed on the fire for a long moment before he spoke again. “It must be hard.”

“What?”

“Being like you,” he said softly. “You must be very lonely.”

Tristan’s mouth went dry. He opened it. Shut it. Opened it again, but no sound came out. They gazed at each other, Tristan’s bewildered stare meeting Pavus’ calm silver gaze. There was no teasing glint in his eyes now, no mockery or flirting; only something that looked like… sympathy. Understanding, even.

He cleared his throat abruptly, just as his heart threatened to beat out of his throat. He screwed the cap back on his flask, standing up. “You should get some rest. We have an early start tomorrow. I’ll keep watch.”

Without another word, he walked off towards the edges of the ring of firelight, kneeling into a meditative position. He could feel the mage’s gaze lingering on his back for several long, agonizing minutes, until Tristan finally heard his breaths easing into a deep sleep.

The night that stretched beyond their small fire suddenly seemed dark enough to swallow him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!
> 
> This story is a prequel to the as-yet-untitled Witcher/Dragon Age crossover fic my beloved friendo [HumblePeasant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumblePeasant/pseuds/HumblePeasant/) and I are currently working on!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	2. Silver Is For Monsters

The acrid smell of drowner blood and the stale, murky waters of Crookback bog reached Tristan’s nostrils several hours before the low reaching branches of the marsh trees rolled into view. The ground had already started becoming slippery a good way back, after they had left Downwarren, the only village in that area whose occupants still dared to live that close to the bog. Brave bastards. Or foolish. Perhaps both.

Tristan steered Almond around a wide dip along the half-abandoned dirt road that led to the swamps, his senses perked up for any possible threat. Animal sounds had started to become scarcer the deeper the rode in, settlements and signs of human activity even more so. Tristan couldn’t blame them - the bog was said to be haunted, cursed, home only to witches, ghosts and monsters. He himself had killed a fair amount of them, but even he was always reluctant to stray too far, lest he never made it out again. Crookbag bog was treacherous, and its inhabitants even more so.

Even Pavus had stopped his merry chatting a while before, keeping to himself most of the time. It felt odd to Tristan that he was so quiet. The hours rolled on far more slowly than before, his nerves stretching thinner and thinner the more the light was obscured by the dense foliage and the shadows grew longer with the setting sun. It was with more than a hint of reluctance that he admitted to himself that perhaps he did, in fact, appreciate the mage’s teasing jokes, even though he rarely, if ever, responded to them.

Perhaps he had grown sentimental, after all.

It took half a day of riding before Tristan started noticing deep and heavy hoofprints that looked nothing like deer or fox or wolf prints. Few foxes or wolves would linger in these parts, and certainly no deer. When they passed through a small clearing and Tristan saw a tree deeply scratched by something that looked like stag antlers, only twice as tall and perhaps three times as thick, he pulled Almond’s reins and dismounted.

“The Fiend’s lair must be close,” he grunted, more so to himself than to the mage.

Pavus shifted on his saddle, his eyes following him intently. “How do you know?”

Tristan’s fingers skimmed the deep, ragged scars on the tree trunk. “It’s a young male, probably, judging by the smell,” he said. Relatively young, at least. Fiends could live for hundreds of years. “Its antlers are sharp. Fiends only scratch their antlers when they feel safe, and nothing speaks safety more clearly than a lair.” He looked around him, lifting his head to sniff the air. An intense smell of pheromones and relict glands reached him. He scrunched his nose, frowning. “That way,” he said pointing to the east. He returned to his horse, pulling her reins towards the west.

“Aren’t we going that way?” Pavus asked, lifting his brows, nodding towards the east.

Tristan scoffed. “We would be, if we were suicidal. Have you never heard that a witcher’s preparation takes time?”

“Ah, yes. I was wondering when you would start sacrificing roosters and praying to… which god do you witchers pray to, again?”

“None,” Tristan replied gruffly. “But if you do believe in one, you should pray to them tonight. Tomorrow we attack, and we’ll need all the help we can get.”

Wind and Fire, Water and Earth. Four elements, bound as one. Order and Chaos, Life and Death, each one a side of the viper’s forked tongue. When the winds are low, when the night is dark, beware the venom of the viper’s fang.

Tristan ran the chant over and over in his mind, going through each step as he sank into a deeper and deeper meditation. It was among the first things he had been trained to do, even before taking up a sword. He was barely ten years old, fresh from the ritual, when he’d been left in a cell at the top of the highest tower in Gorthur Gvaed, the Viper School’s donjon in the deep chasms of the Tir Tochair mountains. He had stayed there for days, weeks, until his mind was empty of all thoughts and all that was left was focus. Pure focus. The strength of the witcher, and the source of his power.

 _Skill at arms makes you a fighter_ , Heir would always say. _Focus is what makes you a witcher_. Sometimes it was like he could still see her from the corner of his eye, leaning against a wall and twirling a dagger between her fingers as she watched him train. He hadn’t seen her in years. He idly wondered how she was.

Tristan opened his eyes slowly, the faint light around him shining just that tiny bit more brightly than before he entered his meditation. Pavus hadn’t woken up yet, even though it was almost dawn, a stark line of grey peeking over the eastern mountains in the distance. Tristan approached their camp slowly, careful not to wake him. His features were soft, lids moving gently as he dreamt, his blanket rising and falling with his breaths. He looked so peaceful, so serene in his sleep. Without his clever quips and witty comebacks, or the wide teasing smile he usually wore like a suit of armour, he seemed… delicate. Tangible. Beautiful and vulnerable, and so very achingly real. Tristan watched him in silence, transfixed, listening to the beating of his heart as the seconds languidly rolled on.

A breeze blew past them, ruffling Pavus’ dark hair, stirring Tristan out of his reverie. He knelt beside him, carefully lifting the thick woollen blanket until its hem rested under Pavus’ chin. The sun was steadily rising, its golden rays slithering through the gaps in the thick foliage overhead, yet the night chill still lingered in the air. It would be a good time to start their journey to the Fiend’s lair, he knew, yet Tristan couldn’t bear the thought of waking him. Time of day did not make much difference to Fiends, yet it did to humans. No one knew exactly what they would be facing, or whether they would be getting out whole. Better let the man get some rest, now that he could.

Tristan took a step back, his gaze lingering on Pavus’s sleeping form for a breath before turning away. He sat by the fire, stirring the glowing embers. The fire crackled, flames licking up at a half-burned log, hungrily seeking the fresh wood underneath the charred edges. Tristan watched quietly for a moment before fishing a small pot out of his bag, along with a bag of tough rolled oats. The least he could do while he waited for Pavus to wake up was to prepare a decent breakfast. They both needed the strength. Besides, a warm meal could do wonders for one’s mood before a battle. Tristan was never one to care too much about food, but Pavus had evidently grown up in luxury. Perhaps it would do him some good to eat something wholesome after all the hard travel bread and cheese they’d been having for days.

He was absently stirring the porridge in the pot when Pavus rose from his slumber. He pushed himself up with a groan, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Good morning, my delightful travelling companion.”

“Morning.”

“It’s so early,” he moaned, stretching his limbs. “Practically still night.”

“It’s late,” Tristan said flatly, banging his small ladle against the rim of the pot. He kept his eyes on the porridge, avoiding the mage’s gaze.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Figured you needed the sleep.”

“Ah, yes,” Pavus said, tossing the covers off him. “Beauty sleep is just the thing one needs before taking on a legendary beast.”

The laces at the top of his shirt had come undone, a swath of bronze skin peeking through the fabric. Tristan swallowed thickly, tearing his gaze away to rummage through his bag for a bowl and a spoon. He gave a small start when he realised Pavus had come close, peering over his shoulder at the porridge simmering in the pot. His scent, that heady, spicy, intoxicating scent, flooded his senses, making it impossible to focus on anything else. Now that he was so close he could make out the distinct undertones of his cologne, lingering on his skin from the previous day, but there was something else, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Was it aniseed? Or caraway? Or maybe...

Tristan clenched his jaw, fighting the sudden, unbearable urge to lean closer and bury his nose in his neck, let that scent fill his lungs. He dropped a generous helping of the porridge into the bowl, unceremoniously handing it over to Pavus. The mage glanced quizzically at it, then at him, hesitating for a moment before accepting.

“You cooked for me?”

“For both of us,” Tristan corrected. “Thought we could have something heartier than stale bread and cheese for a change.” He stood up to remove the pot from the fire, sitting back down a good distance away. He idly stirred the porridge with the small ladle, letting it cool down for a bit before bringing a spoonful to his mouth.

“Do you not have a bowl?” Pavus asked him.

“I travel alone. Why would I need a second bowl?”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you for giving me your solitary bowl, then.” Pavus smiled at him from across the fire, sniffing the porridge before trying it. Then his long, aquiline nose wrinkled in a disgusted frown. "My, is this bland."

A spark of irritation flared in Tristan's chest. "Next time, _you_ cook the damned porridge. We're on the road, not in a bloody palace."

"Just because we aren't in a palace doesn't mean we need to suffer," Pavus replied before procuring a small pouch from one of the many pockets of his coat. He sprinkled some on his porridge, then handed it over to him.

"What is it?" Tristan asked, reluctantly accepting.

"It's a very rare spice. I bought it from a merchant who had just returned from Zerrikania."

"Zerrikania? I thought no merchants went there."

"Not the merchants you're familiar with, evidently," Pavus replied with a sniff, stirring his porridge. 

Tristan carefully, almost reverentially opened the pouch, glancing inside it. Whatever it was, if it had come from Zerrikania, it must have cost a fortune. He had heard countless tales of odd items from that faraway eastern land making their way to the west, yet he had never seen anything up close. He caught some of the spice with his finger, then dabbed it on his tongue. And quirked an eyebrow at the mage. "That's just sugar and cinnamon."

Pavus's full lips widened in a grin. "I had you fooled there for a minute, didn't I?"

Tristan shot him a disgruntled frown as he sprinkled some of the concoction into his pot. He was loathe to admit it, yet the porridge did taste a lot better with Pavus's addition. He grunted silently as he chewed, gazing at the leaves stirring with the wind above them. The swamp air was rank and rancid, yet there was still wind coming from somewhere. He could sense the faint smell of sea water, drifting with the breeze. Perhaps they were closer to the sea than he had thought. Or perhaps there was a salt water lake nearby, that he had failed to notice the last time he had been there. Or perhaps…

Idle thoughts and musings were somewhat successful in distracting him from the mage’s gaze, that seemed to fall on him more often than not. He prayed his cheeks would remain their normal colour when he heard Pavus clearing his throat.

“I can’t help but wonder.” Tristan raised his eyebrows inquisitively, and the mage continued. “You let me sleep in. You made breakfast. Why is that?”

Tristan shrugged. “No particular reason.”

“You don’t strike me as a man that does anything for no reason.” Sterling grey eyes fixed themselves intently on him, the golden flecks in them sparkling with the light of the fire. “I’m starting to think that our quest is more perilous than I initially thought.”

“Possibly. If either you or Emhyr knew exactly how dangerous a Fiend can be, you wouldn’t have hired just one witcher to kill it.” Tristan’s lips tightened in a line. “Fiends are deadly. You should prepare yourself for that possibility.”

Pavus stayed silent for a long moment, peering at the crackling flames. Then, he glanced at the bowl in his hands and scoffed. “If you think that a simple bowl of porridge is a fit preparation for possible death, you are thoroughly mistaken.” He set the bowl down, fished his flask of brandy out of his bag and leaned back on his arm, a smirk playing on his lips. “I believe this is as good a time as any for a story. Don’t you?” Tristan gaped at him, confused. He opened his mouth to refuse, when Pavus held up a finger. “Before you say no again, remember that this might be your last chance. If what you say is true, that Fiend might well get the better of me. Or you. Wouldn’t you want to at least have imparted one of your precious stories to a - _very_ \- willing ear?”

Tristan frowned at him. He was ready to retort, then noticed the edges of Pavus’ mouth twitching just a hair. It was only for a moment, a blink of an eye, but it was enough for Tristan to see the unease hiding under his smooth, glossy surface. The expectancy. The hope. He snapped his mouth shut, his frown deepening. What was it that Pavus wanted of him? Why were Tristan’s stories so important to him? Why… why did he want to get to know him?

He looked stubbornly away, past the line of trees that surrounded their small camp, keeping them safe from view. He thought he heard Pavus sighing softly, then stilling as Tristan's voice broke the silence. “There was a contract I took up once. In Redania." Pavus' eyes snapped to him. Tristan stirred the porridge in his pot, that was now starting to get sticky and thick, letting the silence stretch between them before he continued. "It was for an alpor. Do you know what that is?"

"I've heard stories," Pavus said slowly, carefully. "They’re said to prey on the blood of sleeping people and creatures. There are tales of them using their charm to seduce handsome young men."

Tristan scoffed. “Have you ever seen an alpor up close?” He shook his head. “No. They’re not seducing anyone. Don’t need to. They move so soundlessly, sometimes not even witchers can hear them. They inject their victims with the venom of their fangs, putting them to sleep while they suck their blood dry.” Tristan paused, gazing into the distance as he recounted his story. "I'd heard the rumours while riding through Blaviken. That alpor had been terrorizing the countryside for months. Animals, travellers, some farmhands working late in the fields. Even children, straight from their beds. I stopped by a village and the townsfolk begged me to kill her. The reward they offered me was twice as high the normal pay. Alpors are vicious. Often, one person isn't enough to take them down. I agreed to take up the contract if some men from the village agreed to come with me, work up a distraction while I attacked her. Four of them did. Young ones, their blood boiling for a fight." He took a bite of his porridge, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch. "We set out that night. I'd fixed my armour, prepared my potions, my poisons, sharpened my blades. Alpors need patience to kill. They appear and disappear on their own terms. We camped out close to where I had found her lair to be to wait her out. The hours went on and on, yet still there was no sign of her. Some of the men got impatient."

"Impatient?" Pavus blinked as he took a draught of his brandy. "I can't picture anyone being impatient to meet such a being."

"As I said,” Tristan scraped the last of his porridge from the bottom of the pot as he spoke, "they were young. Not the best help for a contract like that, but I didn't have much of a choice. One of them had brought a couple bottles of whisky he had made himself. It was foul stuff. It burnt its way down your throat, made your eyes water. A couple swigs and you were done for. I urged them not to drink too much, but they wouldn't listen. A couple hours went by and they were all sloshed." He gave Pavus a small smirk. "Me included."

Pavus' eyebrows climbed up his forehead. "Truly? You decided to get drunk with that creature lurking about?"

Tristan huffed a laugh, setting his empty pot aside. "It would have probably been fine if that was all we decided to do. Some of the lads got peckish. Decided to go to the nearest village to get some food. I told them that nothing would be open at that hour, but-”

“Let me guess. They wouldn’t listen.”

"Exactly. So, next thing you know, we are walking through the woods to the nearby town. We split, each one looking for an open tavern or inn. I scoured the place, yet the only tavern was closed. I went back to our meeting point, and..."

Pavus' eyes widened. "What happened then?"

"One of the lads had stolen a cart full of carrots from a nearby stable.”

“Carrots?” Pavus scoffed derisively. “Quite a feast that would have been.”

“I tried to get them to put it back where they'd found it, but they'd already started rolling it out. I guess I should have left them then, but…" he sighed. "I’d become quite fond of them, I suppose. And I was very, very drunk. So, I strapped the cart to my back and helped them get it out while they pushed from behind. We hadn't gone half a mile before a guard from the village stopped us. At this point I noticed that the cart was very heavy all of a sudden."

"The boys had disappeared, I take it?"

Tristan nodded, rubbing his mouth over the grin that threatened to slither to the surface. "They had all ran away to hide as soon as they saw the guard approaching. So there I am, in my full armour and all my daggers, strapped to a cart like a beast of burden, with a guard shoving a lamp in my face and asking me what business a witcher has rolling a cart full of carrots in the dead of night."

"And what did you tell him?"

Tristan cleared his throat, straightening up where he sat. "I have to remind you that I was very inebriated at this point. Redanians don't mess around when it comes to their moonshine." Pavus raised a brow and Tristan let out a soft sigh. "I told him I'd confiscated the cart because I needed the carrots to lure a mighty beast."

"A mighty beast?" Pavus asked, huffing an incredulous laugh. "What beast?"

"....a horse."

Pavus gaped at him for a long moment, blinking in confusion. His bewildered expression melted away to be replaced by a wide smile, his shoulders trembling as his laughter echoed through the small clearing. He really was beautiful when he laughed, Tristan noticed, joining him. His eyes that glinted and sparked with amusement, the tiny lines at their corners, soft and feathery as if they had been drawn by a painter's brush, the neat rows of teeth, white like peeled almonds. The sound of his laugh, bright and crystal clear like water from a babbling brook. Had he ever heard anything as pleasant? Tristan wondered.

“A horse? A dratted horse? Great Sun Almighty,” Pavus said after taking a deep breath, wiping mirth from his eyes. “You really couldn’t have thought of anything else?”

“It was the first animal that sprung to mind!” Tristan protested. “There’s no other beast I know that likes carrots as much as horses. Do you?”

“Rabbits do," Pavus shrugged. "Or groundhogs.”

Tristan rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Oh, yes. Because what other beast is more terrifying than horse, other than a rabbit or a groundhog?”

“Have you ever watched groundhogs fight over a pile of pears? I have, and I assure you it’s quite the sight. Blood chilling. Certainly more sensational than watching a drunk witcher try to bait a runaway horse with carrots, if there are to be comparisons.” Pavus leaned forward to offer him his flask, and Tristan took it gratefully. "If you tell me the guard believed you, I'm leaving you here and going back to Vizima on foot."

Tristan bit his lip, still chuckling. He tipped the mouth of the flask over his lips, savouring the rich taste of the brandy. He tried not to think of Pavus’ lips, that had closed over its rim only a moment before and were now quirked in a smile as he watched him. "No, he didn't," he replied, shaking his head. "Naturally. I guess I could have used Axii on him…" he noticed Pavus' brows furrowing, and he waved the thought away. "Nevermind. What the guard did was drag me to the sheriff's office in Blaviken and have me locked in a cell. Stayed there for two days until the alpor attacked again and they realised I was the only person within miles that could kill her. They agreed to forget about the whole incident if I took care of her. So I did. She was a tough one, though. Gave me a nasty scar." He pulled down the top of his shirt to show him a deep scar underneath his collarbone. It was ragged and pink, one of the many, many scars he had gotten along the way. "I've never set foot in that place since."

Pavus’ eyes slowly drifted from Tristan's collarbone up to his face when Tristan glanced at him. "That was quite the entertaining story, if I've ever heard any," he said. "It puts the palace bards to shame."

"I'm glad it was amusing,” Tristan said, rearranging his shirt. “That was the point, after all, wasn't it?"

"It was.” Pavus rested back on his arm and tilted his head to the side. "I'd love to hear more of your stories after we kill that Fiend. If you've a mind." 

Tristan blinked at him, taken aback by the softness in his voice. The mage was watching him carefully, a dreamy expression on his features, a smile still painted at the edges of his lips. Tristan's heart thumped steadily against his ribcage as he handed him back his flask. "Perhaps. If we return in one piece."

"I'll hold you to that." Pavus reached out to accept the flask, fingers brushing gently over Tristan's. A shiver ran up Tristan's arm at the contact, and he quickly withdrew his hand.

"Right," Tristan said, clearing his throat and standing up. He kicked some dirt over the burning logs, putting the fire out. "I think this is as good a time as any to get started."

Pavus nodded, standing up as well. His gaze lingered on Tristan’s face for a breath before he turned away. “I suppose we won’t be needing any carrots this time, yes?” he called to him over his shoulder as he walked towards his bags.

Tristan chuckled softly, running his fingers through his hair. “I should hope not.”

Leaving their horses behind, they walked through the bog on soundless feet. Tristan had expected Pavus to be a hindrance at first, making too much noise, attracting too much attention from the bog creatures, but he was surprised to find out how nimble and agile he actually was. His feet barely made a sound as they walked through the marsh, even lowering his breaths to a soft, steady rhythm. Tristan caught himself eyeing him sideways on multiple occasions. Making his way through the unfamiliar terrain, hardly missing a step, he looked every inch the battle mage Tristan had hoped he would be.

After what felt like hours, Tristan managed to find enough tracks to lead them to the Fiend’s lair. There was a thin trail, leading up to a small mount, at what looked like a small clearing hidden behind a large, flat rock. The smell of Fiend refuse drifted towards him with the wind as they moved closer. He scrunched his nose and coughed, gagging silently. Yes, the lair was definitely close by.

Sliding his silver shortswords out of their scabbards, Tristan coated them with the relict oil he had prepared. He patted his pockets, making sure his samum bombs were in place and easily accessible. Just before walking ahead, he paused, turning to Pavus. He reached out and caught his arm, holding his gaze firmly.

“I’ll go in first and attract its attention,” he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. “You will attack it from a distance. Do not come close, and do not, under any circumstances, look straight into his third eye. If you do, it will hypnotise you. If you’re hypnotised, you’re dead. Get it?”

Pavus nodded slowly, his sterling silver eyes fixed on his. The morning sun washed over the contours of his face just so as he moved, illuminating his velvety bronze skin, catching in his dark, glossy waves. For a moment, Tristan pictured that beautiful face, mangled by the Fiend’s claws, and his heart clenched. He wouldn’t let that happen. Not if he could help it.

His lips tightened in a line and he turned away, when Pavus’s hand closed over his own.

“Be careful,” the mage whispered.

Tristan gazed at him for a quick moment, startled by the concern in his eyes. His touch was soft and gentle, surprisingly so. He gave Pavus’ arm a tiny squeeze before letting go, blending into the shadows.

A deep humming noise rumbled through the clearing as Tristan moved closer. Concealed in the dense shadows, he could examine the Fiend without it noticing him. It was large, perhaps not quite as large as a fully grown one, but that didn’t make its limbs any less thick than tree trunks. Its large, ugly snout was pressed against its folded legs as it slept, its curved back moving steadily with breaths.

Tristan moved closer, holding his breath, daggers at the ready, his senses fixed to pick up the slightest change in the creature’s heartbeat. He edged closer, ever closer, gliding through the shifting shadows of the leaves stirring with the wind. Just another step, enough to be able to plunge his shortsword straight into the base of its thick skull-

The Fiend’s eyes, dark and round like smooth, polished pebbles, fluttered open, its menacing gaze piercing him where he stood.

Tristan ducked back as the Fiend rose to his feet, a rumble coming from deep within its large body. Its enormous paws, the claws on them thicker than tree branches and sharper than fleshly whetted blades, scratched at the ground, leaving thick welts on the grass in their wake. Its third eye was still closed, but Tristan knew well that it wouldn’t be for long.

He rolled to the side, just in time to get out of the Fiend’s way before it charged straight ahead. He landed agilely on his feet - the ground was even there, thankfully,- and brandished his blades. A Fiend’s most vulnerable spot was its rear, all witchers knew this well, and that was where he would focus his attack. He dashed forward, slashing and hacking as quickly and deeply as he could before the beast turned on him again. It roared furiously as Tristan’s daggers tore through its skin, the poisonous relict oil burning deep into its flesh. It turned around in a flurry of moving antlers and sharp claws, ready to pounce, when the viper amulet by Tristan’s neck vibrated, as it always did when magic was being cast. A fireball crackled right past Tristan’s ear to land on the beast’s face with a loud whoosh.

“Take that, you filth!” Pavus exclaimed.

Tristan glanced at him from the corner of his eye before dodging out of the way of the Fiend’s whirling antlers. It shook its head furiously, trying to get the flames off it, before another fireball caught it in the rear.

The mage laughed from his spot atop an upturned tree. “I could do this all day!”

“Careful what you wish for,” Tristan grunted, taking several careful steps away from the roaring monster. Reapplying the relict oil would take no time at all, but it would mean taking his eyes off the Fiend, and taking your eyes from the target during a fight, even for a moment, even for a breath, could mean death - or worse. Witchers were trained not to fear death. Death during a fight with a monster was a natural consequence to their way of life. In fact, not many witchers expected to die in a different manner. Yet, no one was fool enough to seek it.

“Cover for me!” he growled to the mage, rolling away behind a tree. The relict oil was in its own little compartment in his specially designed belt, made for easy access during battle. He uncorked the bottle with his teeth, messily splashing the oil onto his blades. No time to be careful and thorough about it. Pressing himself against the tree trunk, giving as little target as he could, he peered behind him. Pavus was doing a good job distracting the beast, drawing its attention away from where Tristan was. Strong gusts of air and fire were keeping it at bay, but Tristan could see how close the Fiend was getting to reaching him.

“Get back!” he called to the mage as he threw the empty relict oil bottle away.

“Not a chance.” Pavus’ voice was a tad breathless when he spoke, cutting through the beast’s roar. “Someone has to keep that thing off you, yes?”

Gritting his teeth, Tristan stepped out of his hiding place, rolling soundlessly behind it. The Fiend’s ear pricked up, following the sound of the grass shifting under Tristan’s feet. It turned abruptly to him, brandishing its large incisors.

“Get over here, you ugly bastard,” Tristan grunted, reaching for the samum bomb hanging by his belt. The Fiend viciously pawed the ground, as if responding to his challenge. A deep rumble echoed through the clearing, making the stone behind Tristan tremble as the beast charged forward. With a smirk, Tristan pulled the bomb’s safety cap off before throwing it straight to the Fiend’s face.

An explosion of heat and sound. Bright white light, smoke and sizzling fire breaking free from the small, stealthy container. The Fiend reared, howling, bolting away from the bomb that was still crackling on the ground. Fiends disliked loud noises, intense heat, too bright lights- and this one was no exception. The edges of Tristan’s daggers glinted in the sun before he leapt towards the beast once more.

Blood, thick and bright red, sticky like glue poured forth from the Fiend’s wounds as Tristan slashed mercilessly at it, barely stopping to take a breath. He plunged his daggers into its rear and its sides, the fine silver of his blades and his own hands painted crimson. He cut through vital arteries, pierced thick hide and flesh to injure the sensitive organs underneath, slashed and hacked at tendons that were thicker than ship rope. It wouldn’t last for long, not with the multitude of lacerations Tristan had managed on it, and the relict oil working deep inside the creature’s flesh to undo it from the inside. He attacked in a whirlwind of slashes, taking advantage of the beast’s confusion, hacking deeper, deeper-

With a furious howl, the Fiend turned around, fixing him with a heated glare. A heated glare from the solitary eye in the center of its forehead.

_Fuck._

Tristan backed away, almost falling flat on his back with his haste. He had been too careless, too greedy, attacking without taking care to cover himself from the Fiend’s biggest threat. The world started spinning, spinning, darkening, plunging into blackness-

And then there was nothing.

The sounds died away. The shifting of the leaves overhead, the wind, the sound of Pavus’ fireballs as they sizzled and crackled through the air, his voice, calling to him, the Fiend’s angry howls, all fading into a dull, hollow murmur. Tristan blinked, again and again, struggling to see something, anything in the expansive abyss that suddenly surrounded him. His pulse pounded in his ears while his stomach was gripped in a tight vice. He shifted and turned, fingers wrapped around the hilts of his shortswords like they were his lifeline. He spun around, hoping for something in the darkness - when he finally saw it.

A light, small and flickering at first, that slowly grew larger, steadier. The light at the end of an endless tunnel. Tristan’s first instinct was to move towards it, when his feet planted themselves firmly on the ground.

The Fiend’s burning eye, disguised as the only hope of escape in that never-ending darkness, flickered before him, drawing him in. Tristan gritted his teeth, holding on to his daggers for dear life, focusing on the weight of the viper amulet hanging by his neck, vibrating softly each time Pavus cast a spell. _Watch the eye_ , Heir would have said. _Watch its movements. Wherever the eye is, that’s where the Fiend is. You’re the hunter and it is the prey, not the other way round._

The light moved closer to him, slowly and steadily, but Tristan knew that this was only one of the Fiend’s tricks. Lulling its victims into this state of hypnosis, dulling their senses so they thought the light was moving at a snail’s pace, when in reality the Fiend ran towards them at full speed. He would not fall into yet another trap. He would not.

Drawing on his focus, Tristan let the power of Chaos suffuse him. It tingled as it spread through his limbs, pooling at his fingertips. He raised his hand and drew an upside triangle, calling forth a protective barrier around him. _The Wind Blowing Through the Oak Trees_ , Heir used to call it, to help him visualise it when he was a child. The shimmering barrier settled on him like a second skin, and he rolled away, just as the burning eye dove towards him. Recreating the image of the clearing as accurately as he could from memory, he spun around, dashing forth to plunge his daggers in the Fiend’s flesh.

First try and he slashed at air, miscalculating. The Fiend was far more nimble that Tristan had expected, moving quickly and efficiently, using his disorientation to its advantage. His breath was almost knocked out of him when a large paw crashed against him, making his barrier explode, sending him reeling backwards.

“Fuck,” Tristan muttered, drawing himself upright on unsteady feet. The eye was moving again, a burning, menacing light in the darkness, the surety of death lurking underneath what looked like the last lingering hope for life. It sped towards him and Tristan dodged away again, this time plunging his shortswords deep in the Fiend’s flank as it rushed by him.

A hollow, distant howl split the nothingness that surrounded him. The dark lifted only slightly, enough for Tristan to make out the outline of his surroundings. The Fiend was a little way away from him, its coat glistening with fresh blood. The ground was riddled with long, ragged scars where the Fiend had raked it with its enormous claws, and a few of the trees that surrounded the clearing had been knocked down. Tristan blinked hard, forcing his mind to focus through the hazy mist, frantically searching for Pavus. How long had he been under the Fiend’s influence? Time got warped when in a state of hypnosis, that he knew. Even so, Tristan could swear that it wasn’t more than a couple of minutes that he was under the beast’s control, but one could never tell for sure. If it had managed to get to him while Tristan was out...

Beads of sweat ran cold down his back as he spun around, trying to catch a glimpse of the mage. The Fiend was already shifting, making the ground tremble with its angry rumbles. Tristan edged backwards, away from the beast. He was about to reach for another of his samum bombs and retreat while the Fiend was still confused, when he saw Pavus emerging from behind a tall rock. He looked pale and drawn, his brow glistening with the effort of calling forth another spell. Tristan didn’t know much about how sorcerers used magic, but he knew well that, no matter how strong they were, they could only use so much magic in one go without reaching their limits. And Pavus seemed like he was rapidly approaching his.

Tristan’s breath caught in his throat, icy tentacles of fear making their way up his spine as he turned to the Fiend, that had now forgotten all about him to focus its glare on the mage, drawn by the iridescent light that was gathering in the air between Pavus’s fingertips. It growled and pawed at the earth, sending big clumps of earth flying behind it. Tristan watched as if in slow motion as it braced on its hind legs and shot forth, charging straight for Pavus.

Tristan forgot his own exhaustion, forcing his trembling legs to carry him forward, towards the rapidly advancing beast. “Get back!” he growled at the mage, reaching for one of his bombs at the same time. The bomb exploded just as Pavus ducked behind the rock, making the Fiend stop dead in its tracks. It screamed and moved back, away from the sudden flash of light and the smoke that erupted from the bomb’s small pouch.

Taking advantage of the Fiend’s momentary confusion, Tristan leapt onto its back, grabbing its antlers. “Go away!” he yelled at Pavus, who blinked blearily at him, eyes red from the samum bomb’s smoke.

“Are you mad?!” the mage yelled back, emerging from behind the rock. “That thing’s going to-”

“Leave!” Tristan growled, gripping the antlers more tightly. “Just go!”

The Fiend screamed painfully, tossing its head left and right, furiously trying to get him off its back. Tristan held on for dear life, shifting his weight to the side to make the beast turn away from Pavus to the opposite direction. The beast staggered to the left, head drooping under Tristan’s weight, yet it still didn’t stop its frantic attempts to shake him off. He clenched his jaw, the sharp edges of the antlers digging into his sides, his palms raw and bloody from trying to hold on to both the beast and his daggers. His breath was now coming in short bursts from the effort of staying upright, sweat running down his forehead in small streams. He just needed to hold it together, just long enough for the beast to exhaust itself, and then-

With a sudden howl, the Fiend charged towards the tall rock at the edge of the clearing. Tristan watched, wide eyed, as the rock got closer and closer, bracing himself for the impact. Before he could realise what had happened, the beast planted its paws on the ground, sending him flying forward. The air was knocked from his lungs when he crashed against the rock and landed on the ground in a tangled heap. His head spun as he tried to push himself up, wheezing. A warm trickle of blood ran down his brow, mingling with his sweat, blurring his vision. His limbs were barely obeying him anymore, legs wobbling, arms trembling, lungs burning. He blinked furiously, scrambling to regain his focus, when the ground shivered beneath his feet.

He pushed himself up just in time to see the Fiend lunging towards him. The world moved at an unbearably slow pace as he was pinned against the rock, trapped between dense stone and thick, branch-like antlers. Pain such that he had never known burst through his focus, blocking out everything else. He peered down to see one of the antler edges piercing his armour, straight through his abdomen. Everything was red and unbearably sharp, the sunlight scorching his eyes, the Fiend’s vile breath overpowering his senses. The world around him flickered and tilted, spinning, whirling. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, not even to ease the antler out of him. Perhaps his time to die a witcher’s death had finally come.

He lifted his head, glancing at Pavus through his haze. He was standing perfectly still, watching him wide-eyed from a distance. All colour was sapped from his face, his features suddenly looking as if carved from pale stone. His beautiful face.

Tristan gritted his teeth, breathing through the agony. He turned his gaze to the Fiend that was still holding him fast, and tightened his hold on his daggers. He would be damned if he didn’t take the bastard down with him.

With the last dregs of his strength, he lifted his long daggers, plunging them straight into the Fiend’s eyes, piercing its brain. The Fiend howled one last time before it collapsed on the ground, taking Tristan with it. The feel of grass and dirt on his face, the warmth of fresh blood on his skin, and everything faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi! :)
> 
> Special shoutout to my beloved potate [Humble Peasant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumblePeasant/pseuds/HumblePeasant) for her precious help with brainstorming! Love youuu ❤️


	3. Fast Approaching Dusk

Pain, dull and hollow. Breath, short and panting. Head heavy. Lids heavier. Scattered thoughts, twisted images, broken shards of something that must have been whole, once, a long time before. A young girl’s laugh, blonde hair so pale it almost looked white. Blue eyes so dark they looked like deep, whirling pools. A mirror of his own. The gleaming edge of a dagger in the night. A viper’s forked tongue, flickering. A plunge into a yawning abyss.

Tristan woke up with a gasp, coughing and sputtering, agony spearing his sides. Bright light stabbed his retinas, searing white rays piercing his brain. He reached out, searching for his daggers, oblivious to the pain that flared with his every move. His daggers, he had to find his _fucking_ daggers-

“Easy! Easy. It’s alright. You’re safe. Great Sun Almighty, you’ll undo all your bandages the way you’re thrashing about.”

That smooth, velvet voice made Tristan stop abruptly. He blinked, his vision clearing somewhat. Pavus was kneeling next to him, brows furrowed in concern. Tristan squinted, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the sunlight that was streaming through the foliage overhead, framing Pavus’s face like a halo.

“What- what happened?” Tristan said, his voice a forced croak. He tried to sit up, but the mage’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Lie down. You need rest.” He uncorked a water skin, bringing its mouth close to Tristan’s lips. His palm eased behind Tristan’s neck, holding his head steady as he helped him drink. His touch was gentle, caring. Tristan couldn't even remember the last time someone had touched him with so much tenderness. He made a weak attempt to pull away, but as soon as the fresh water reached his lips he realised how parched he was. He drank thirstily, thin streams of liquid running down his cheeks, soaking his hair that clung to the back of his neck. He drank until the water skin was empty, yet he would have gladly drank a couple more. Pavus gently withdrew his hand from under his neck, his fingers soft as they brushed against his skin. He let his head fall back on the makeshift pillow that Pavus had made for him. It felt like one of his cotton undershirts. It smelt like him, too.

“What… where is the Fiend?” he asked, trying to take his mind off of Pavus’s scent that seemed to be everywhere around him all of a sudden.

Pavus quirked an eyebrow as he put the cork back on the waterskin. “Where do you think it is? Lying dead in a bloodied heap, where you left it.”

“Ah.” Tristan took in his surroundings. A merry fire was crackling close to him, its soothing warmth seeping into him through his woollen blanket. A pot was hanging over it, its contents simmering away. Pavus’ bedroll, clean and neatly folded, was almost touching his own. Had he slept next to him all the while Tristan had been unconscious?

The swell of affection that flooded his chest was surprising, and wholly uninvited. Tristan took a breath and cleared his throat in an effort to ease it away. He was still woozy from sleep. Must have been. “How long was I out?”

“Two days. More or less.”

“Two days? Fuck,” Tristan breathed. “What… what happened?”

“What happened? You mean you don’t remember getting skewered by that Fiend’s antlers?”

“Yes, I… I remember.” Tristan winced at the memory of the Fiend’s snout, its foul breath so close to him. Of its burning eye in the darkness, luring him into an agonising end. Of its claws and its deafening roars, and of Pavus's face, pale and drawn as he watched him teetering on the precipice of death. Tristan shook his head gently, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before he opened them again. “What happened after?

“You were half dead by the time I dragged you off that thing. The antler had gone straight through your lung. Healing is not my field of expertise, but I did manage to stem the bleeding somewhat. Couldn’t do much about the scarring, I’m afraid. Had to stitch and wrap the wound with the healing kit I had on me. After that, I came back to fetch my horse and carried you back here.” Pavus let out a sigh, leaning back on his arm. A tiny teasing smile was on his lips when he gazed at him. “You’re much heavier than you look, you know.”

“Right,” Tristan said, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “Sorry about that.”

Pavus waved absently. “Apologise to my horse. The scent of the Fiend’s blood almost gave him a heart attack. He’s still jittery. The faintest sound can send him off. Your horse seems to be doing splendid, though.”

“She’s used to that sort of thing.”

“I’ve gathered as much.” Pavus stood up, leaning over the pot by the fire as he stirred its contents. When he came to sit back down next to Tristan, he was holding a steaming bowl of stew. “You should eat something. Shall I help you with it?”

Tristan shook his head, propping himself up on his elbow, wincing at the pain in his side. The stew was hot, burning his tongue as he took a spoonful. It tasted faintly of spices. “It’s good.”

“Of course it is,” Pavus said with a smirk. “Certainly much better than that bland porridge you made the other day.”

Tristan grunted a half hearted assent as he chewed, then nodded at a small pouch that was lying close to the mages’ belongings, stained with blood. “Did you get what you came for?”

“I did.” Pavus glanced over his shoulder, following Tristan’s gaze. “That Fiend won’t be missing its third eye.”

Its third eye. So that was what he’d wanted all along. That was what Emhyr wanted to get his hands on. A Fiend’s third eye was said to have many powers and strange applications, but most of the rumours were simply that; rumours. Superstition. Old wives tales about knights who battled Fiends to obtain their third eye, which would miraculously bring their beloved back to life or that could be given to demons in exchange for riches and power. Tristan doubted his knowledge now. What could the Emperor of Nilfgaard possibly want to do with that eye? What were they up to?

In his dream-like haze, Tristan almost voiced those questions. As soon as he opened his mouth, though, he quickly snapped it shut again. Witchers didn’t ask these sort of questions. Whatever Pavus was looking to do with it, was his own business. And as soon as Tristan was paid the entirety of the gold promised to him, this whole affair would stop being any of his.

“You witchers heal surprisingly quickly,” Pavus said as he watched him eat, stirring him out of his thoughts. “I managed to make you drink one of those healing potions in your pouch while you were unconscious - at least I hope it was a healing potion. It reeked abominably to me. You didn’t die, so I guess it worked, yes?”

“You went through my potions?” Tristan’s eyes widened. “You know they’re highly toxic for anyone that isn't a witcher, right? And how did you know which one to give me?”

“Oh, please. I could recognise the smell of swallow and celandine anywhere. Although there was something else positively horrid in there that I couldn’t quite place.”

“That must have been the drowner brains,” Tristan said, smirking when he saw Pavus’ eyes widening, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “Or the vitriol.”

“The horror,” he breathed, pressing his hand on his chest. “The things you poor fellows have to ingest. No wonder you’re so irritable.” Tristan glowered at him, and Pavus laughed mirthfully under his breath. He gave him a warm smile after his laughter had eased away, letting his gaze glide over Tristan’s features. Tristan felt that familiar flush returning to his cheeks, and he hastily looked away. When the mage spoke again, his voice was soft like a whisper. “It almost got you, you know. I’ve never seen a gash this nasty."

Tristan lifted the blanket that Pavus had draped over him. His armour had been removed to be replaced by soft cotton breeches. The bandages on his chest were clean, freshly changed, the strong smell of antiseptic ointment reaching his nostrils. And soap. A startling realisation suddenly dawned on him, making his breath hitch. Pavus had removed his armour, washed him, dressed his wounds, put him in clean clothes. Pavus had seen him naked. Fuck. Shit.

His face was burning when he swiftly let the blanket fall over him again. “I’ve had worse,” he grumbled, eyes fixed on his bowl of stew, hoping against hope that his furious blush wasn’t as noticeable, although he must have looked red like a pomegranate by then. He scooped up the last of his meal and pushed the bowl away, lying flat on his back with a grunt.

"That’s easy enough for you to say. You didn’t see the wound when it was fresh. If the Fiend's antler had got you just an inch to the right, I'm not certain I would have been able to do much. If it were your spleen instead of your lung you would have bled out before I’d even reached you."

Tristan shrugged indifferently. “Perhaps. But it didn’t. And I-” he shot him a sideways glance as he spoke at him, and his words died in his mouth. There was worry lingering in the mage’s eyes, his brows drawn in a thoughtful frown. Tristan felt irresistibly drawn to that curious silver gaze, like a moth was drawn to light. "I, uh…" he started, gulping thickly. "Thank you. You…" He paused, letting out a low chuckle. It sounded weak and painful. "It seems I owe you my life."

Pavus looked at him quizzically for a long moment, tilting his head to the side. "You think so? It never occurred to me. I could invoke the Law of Surprise, I suppose. That might come in handy."

Tristan frowned at him. Invoking the Law of Surprise was no laughing matter, and he had heard of countless people getting into trouble for merely mentioning it. Pavus huffed in amusement when he noticed his disgruntled expression. "I'm simply joking, naturally. If anything, I owe you _my_ life. If it hadn't been for you jumping onto that beast's head, it would have been me lying where you are now. If I were here at all." Pavus held his gaze, his gaze softening. "If thanks are to be given, then you should have mine."

Tristan's heart fluttered in his chest, a blade of grass trembling with the wind. He licked his lips, swallowing thickly. "You-uh… It-it's alright," he stammered. "You don't have to… You placed yourself in danger, too. If it hadn't been for you drawing the Fiend's attention while it had me in hypnosis-" He shook his head. “You could have ran off, then. Should have, actually. Yet you didn’t.”

"Oh, please. As if I would have left you to die out there. Not when you’d finally started warming up to me."

"I… what?"

Pavus' smile widened. "You grabbed a Fiend quite literally by the antlers to save me. You also haven't snapped or grunted in the last ten minutes. Not much, at least. If that's not warming up, then I'm not sure what is.”

"I don't… that's not-" Tristan frowned, pursing his lips in some desperate attempt to appear stern. “I gave my word to the Emperor that I would see you back safe. Witchers live and die by their word. That's what they should do, at least.”

“Was that the only reason you did it?” Pavus whispered, shifting just an inch closer to him.

Tristan’s first instinct was to edge back, safely away. Instead, he found himself watching him wide eyed, unable to move, a deer before bright lights. “I… I-” He dabbed his lips with his tongue, swallowing thickly. The words left his mouth before he could stop them. “I didn’t want to see you get hurt."

With a soft sigh, Pavus moved closer still, covering the distance between them. His lips were only a hair away from Tristan's when he paused, his breath tickling his skin. "I like you, too.”

As if drawn by a spell, Tristan leaned in, catching his plush, velvet lips in a kiss. The mage moaned softly, fingers threading in Tristan’s hair. Tristan’s hands tangled in his robes when he reached out, pulling him towards him. His injury nipped with his movements, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Pavus’ lips were soft and warm against his, and he tasted of cardamom and cloves, and his fingers were soothing as they smoothed down the sides of his neck. Tristan could almost feel the vibration of his magic running over his skin, tingling, drawing him in.

“I want you,” Tristan whispered. He ran his palm down the mage's back, feeling his muscles under the thick fabric. “I want- I want-”

“I want you, too.” Pavus closed his teeth over Tristan’s bottom lip, nipping and sucking lightly as his hand left his neck to skim carefully over his bandages, palm brushing over the bulge in Tristan’s breeches. Deft fingers slithered under his waistband and it wasn’t long before Tristan groaned against his lips, thrusting into his hand when it wrapped around his hardness. “I want you so much.”

“Yes,” Tristan nodded, hypnotised, riding the waves of pleasure that washed through him, unable to hold back. Everything else around him had faded away, even the pain at his sides, and there was only Pavus there, and his lips, his tongue, his hands- fuck, his _hands_ -

Pavus’ mouth left his own to brush along his jaw, down his neck, along the dip of his chest. Tristan held his breath as he watched him trail ever downwards, every touch sending ripples of electricity down his spine. The mage held his gaze firmly, lips quirked in a teasing smile before they closed over his cock.

Tristan moaned, fingers snaking into Pavus’ hair. His mouth was warm and slick, his tongue smooth like velvet as it pressed against him. He shivered as he was swallowed whole, that rich heat enveloping him until he could think of nothing else. He wondered idly whether he had ever felt anything as pleasant, whether there was anything in the world that would compare to that, to that sweet torture, to that slow, agonising pleasure. His fingers were soft when they curled around the base of his cock, when they caressed his thighs, when they trailed upwards to touch the exposed skin of his chest. His sterling grey eyes were fixed on Tristan’s, his intense gaze stealing the air from his lungs. How had he held himself back from this- from him- all these days? How had he managed to keep his hands off him for so long?

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Tristan rasped, pulling him up. Pavus hovered over him, straddling him. Tristan pried his mouth open with his tongue, the taste of him on Pavus’ lips sending shivers coiling and unraveling through him. He slithered his palms under the mage’s robes, feeling the tight muscles of his thighs, fingers digging at the firm flesh of his buttocks through his smallclothes. He hooked a digit over the waistband, the rich fabric retreating easily under his fingertips. “Silk?” he whispered, and the mage chuckled softly.

“Oh, yes,” he murmured against his lips. “Only the best kind.” He gasped when Tristan pulled at it, the silk fabric ripping at the seams. He edged back to look at him, a stern expression on his features. “You owe me a pair of very expensive underwear, you know.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” Tristan brushed his fingers over Pavus’ mouth, then sighed as those full, luscious lips wrapped around his digits. Sucking gently, caressing them with the flat of his tongue. Teeth closing over his fingertips. Eyes trained on his own. Did Pavus even realise the effect his eyes had on him? Could he see, could he feel the rolling waves of lust that rushed through him with his every glance? The pulse that roared in Tristan’s ears with every touch?

He dragged his fingers out slowly, replacing them with his tongue. “You’re brilliant,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse. “Just bloody brilliant.” He reached down, closing his palm around Pavus’s length, brushing his thumb over the bead of dew that had gathered at the tip. The mage tilted his head back, sighing as Tristan placed a trail of kisses along the underside of his jaw, pumping him slowly. He took a deep breath, letting his rich scent fill his lungs.“And you smell so… so-”

“Yes?” Pavus breathed, reaching out for his bag, rummaging through its contents until he pulled out a small vial. He dropped some of the liquid on his palm, then reached down between them to smooth it over Tristan’s shaft.

Tristan’s mouth watered when the spicy scent of the oil reached his nostrils. His pulse quickened, a hot white rush that surged through him in a wave. “You smell so-” he grunted softly, thrusting in Pavus’ hand. “You-you smell... incredible.”

“What else do you like about me?” the mage asked, carefully angling Tristan at his entrance.

“You’re- ah- you-” Tristan’s eyes rolled back at the contact. He clenched his jaw, fingers sinking in Pavus’s thigh. “Your mouth. Your lips. Your skin. Your eyes. They’re beautiful. You’re-” He gazed up at him, running his tongue over his lips. “You’re beautiful.”

Pavus leaned down, brushing his nose over his. “You’re not that bad looking yourself,” he whispered, his lips curved in a smirk.

Tristan groaned at the back of his throat as the mage sank slowly, ever so slowly over his hardness, as the tip of his cock slipped inside his tight heat. “Fuck, this is- this is-”

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Pavus said breathlessly, taking him in a little deeper. A deep flush had risen up his cheeks when he quirked an eyebrow at him. “Makes you feel like an idiot for not doing it sooner, yes?”

Tristan rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation, though it was half hearted. Mainly because Pavus was right. “You talk too much,” he grunted, cupping his neck to pull his lips down to his, hips bucking upwards a bit more. He kissed him deeply, tongue caressing the roof of his mouth, drinking in the gasps that escaped Pavus as he thrust lightly, shallowly until he was sheathed to the hilt.

“Yes- Sun, yes-” the mage moaned, grinding helplessly against him. He was tight -fuck, was he tight- deliciously warm, infernally good. He pushed into him over and over, chasing every sliver of that sweet bliss. Pavus threw his head back when Tristan closed his fist over his cock, pumping him in time with his thrusts. “Yes- harder, please…”

The breathiness, the need in his voice, the flush of his cheeks, his glistening lips, they made the roaring fire that flooded Tristan’s chest soar to something uncontrollable. He gripped his hips, dragging him down as he surged up, driving himself deeper. His pulse was buzzing in his ears, warmth surging through him with every thrust, his breath catching in his throat, his breath-

Tristan stopped abruptly, his head falling back against the pillow as his lungs spasmed, seeking more air. His hold on Pavus’s hips tightened, holding him steady. “Wait,” he croaked, voice thick and strained.

The mage blinked at him, lifting himself up. “What? What happened?” He was panting, sweat gathering on his brow. It glowed in the evening sun, like beads of golden dew.

Tristan gulped, inhaling slowly through his nose. “I just- I need to catch my breath.” His wound stabbed him every time his chest rose and fell, making it hard to speak. Pavus was watching him wide-eyed, sitting perfectly still on top of him.

“Are you alright? Shall we stop?” he asked, anxiously searching his face. He shifted where he was, lifting himself up. “Perhaps I should-”

Tristan grabbed him tightly, pulling him back down. “Don’t- don’t move,” he rasped. He winced as his lung stabbed at him, and he felt the mage’s back stiffen, saw his eyes widen in concern. Tristan let out a slow exhale, caressing Pavus’s sides under his robes. His muscles were tight underneath his smooth skin, and Tristan let his fingers glide over them, tracing the line that led to his navel with his thumb. “Let’s just take it slow.” He languidly ran his fist down the mage’s length, watching with keen eyes as his eyes rolled back and his lips parted on a moan. “I want to feel you. Really feel you.”

“Slow. Yes.” Pavus nodded, breathless. “I want to feel you, too. You feel so good. So hard. So thick. So-” He rocked against him, palms bracing on the ground on either side of Tristan’s head. He was moving slowly, infuriatingly slowly, but his pace did nothing to quell the roaring blaze of want that surged through him. If nothing else, it kindled it even more.

Tristan fumbled with the buttons and buckles of Pavus’s clothes as the mage rode him - what need was there for all these blasted buckles, anyway?- until he was blissfuly bare, his robes discarded beside them. Until he was hovering over him in nothing but his skin. And what a glorious skin that was - smooth like velvet, rich like caramel, catching the rays of the setting sun, glowing. Tristan dragged his palm down his torso, feeling the contours of his taut muscles. He sighed when he brushed his thumb over a raised nipple, the tight nub stiffening under his touch. Pavus’s teeth closed over Tristan’s bottom lip, his hand slithering in Tristan’s hair as he moaned, as he picked up his pace, lowering himself over and over on his cock. “Tristan,” he breathed, long fingers wrapping around his strands, pulling. “Oh, Tristan-”

His name, spoken in Pavus’s breathless voice, was enough to set his blood aflame. Before he could stop to think, he gripped the mage tightly, shifting his weight to flip him on his back. The wound nipped under the bandage, and he winced in pain, biting the inside of his lip.

The mage gaped at him. “Wait- your injury-” he started, but only managed to let out a loud moan when Tristan thrust eagerly back into him.

“Fuck my injury,” Tristan grunted, crashing his mouth against Pavus’ again, ignoring the pain in his side as their lips touched, chasing every other thought and sensation away. There was nothing else in the world but him, his velvet heat warming him to his very core, his scent that flooded his senses, the taste of him that lingered on his tongue when he brushed it over his throat. He pushed harder, as hard as he could, hooking an arm under his leg to burrow more of his cock inside him.

Pavus’s head fell back, his fingers digging into Tristan’s shoulder blades as Tristan drove himself deeper. The mage’s lips that pressed against the side of his neck, the streams of garbled sentences and curses that ran over Tristan’s skin as he reached down to stroke himself in time with Tristan’s thrusts, his eyes that rolled back with his climax, they were all too much, far too much. The heat and tension that had coiled in his gut burst into something white hot and blinding as he shuddered, letting the vibrations of Pavus's ecstasy wash through him.

Tristan collapsed on top of him, suddenly feeling every last bit of his strength leaving him. His limbs ached and trembled, and the skin at his sides tingled when Pavus ran his palms over it. With soft, careful movements, the mage rolled him on to his back, his fingers lingering on him for just a breath before sitting up to pull a blanket over them both. They lay next to each other for a long while, the chirping of the birds and their own breaths, gradually softening, the only sounds between them.

Tristan inhaled deeply, taking in the quiet of the moment. He watched Pavus from the corner of his eye, studying his languid movements. His heavy lids, fluttering softly. The thin film of sweat that still clung to his brow. He wondered idly whether it had all really happened, or whether the past half hour or so was part of a fever induced dream. A wonderful dream, yes, but a dream nonetheless.

Pavus shifted were he lay, curling his arm under his head. “You can just look at me, you know,” he said sleepily. “You don’t have to peek.”

Tristan frowned, turning away. “I am not peeking.”

“Yes, you are. You’ve been doing it ever since the moment you saw me.”

Tristan’s cheeks flared hot and bright, and he cleared his throat irritably. “I’ve been doing nothing of the sort.”

“For someone who prides themselves on their stealth skills, you’re not very subtle.”

Tristan rolled his eyes, huffing. “Are you always so mouthy, Pavus?”

“Well, of course I am,” the mage chuckled. “It’s one of my greatest assets. Something to which you yourself can attest.” He propped himself up on his elbow to fix him with a pointed look. “And, by the way, my name isn’t Pavus.”

“What?”

“My name. It’s not Pavus. It’s Dorian.”

“I know what your name is,” Tristan grumbled, pursing his lips. He felt like a petulant child all of a sudden.

“You know it, yet you never use it.” He leaned closer, brushing his nose over his. “Just try it. It’s not that difficult. Dorian. Do-ri-an.”

Tristan took a tremulous breath, resisting the urge to surge forward and run the flat of his tongue over those full, glistening lips. “ _Dorian_ ,” he said after a brief moment of hesitation, poignantly drawing the vowels out. “There. Happy?”

“Very.” Dorian flashed him a wide smile, his finger tracing the raised scar on Tristan’s collarbone. “Now that we’ve learned the basics, we can move on to something more advanced, yes? Let’s start with… ‘You look positively splendid today, Dorian’. That’s always nice to hear. Or ‘I thoroughly enjoy your company, Dorian’. Or ‘Your wit and charm is unparalleled, Dorian’. Or…”

Tristan pulled him down for a deep, passionate kiss, their tongues twining. “You drive me mad, Dorian.”

Dorian laughed against his lips, pressing his body closer against his. “I love hearing that, too,” he whispered. “Especially when it comes from you.”

The days of travel until they got back to Vizima rolled by swiftly, much more swiftly than Tristan would have liked. Even more than he would care to admit. The long hours on the saddle by day, listening to Dorian’s voice, drinking in the sound of his laugh. The longer hours at night, when they lay together by the fire until the early morning rays found them. It was as if Tristan was in a constant dream-like haze, his mind filled with thoughts of him, the taste of him, the feel of him. Pure, unfiltered bliss. Ecstasy in slow motion.

When the tall towers of the palace of Vizima rose before them, it was as if someone had stabbed him in the spleen and left him for dead in a shallow ditch.

They didn’t exchange too many words as they solemnly rode through the town’s tidy cobblestone streets. The people parted when they passed, with quick, uneasy looks at Dorian’s magnificent horse, Tristan’s armour and the amulet hanging about his neck. A few even flinched when they met his eyes, praying to their gods under their breath.

Dorian’s expression was serious and grim when their horses’ hooves reached the stone bridge that arched over the deep, broad moat that separated the castle from the rest of the world. They both dismounted, reluctantly handing their reins to the stable boys that rushed out to get their steeds. Var Heid was already waiting for them by the inner courtyard. He gave them both a small bow, hawk like eyes examining them when he straightened back up.

“Was the gentlemen’s journey satisfactory?”

“As a matter of fact, it was,” Dorian said with a sickly sweet smile. “But it was also long and tiring. So, you will excuse us if we go straight to our rooms, yes? I could use a bath.”

Var Heid’s gaze fleeted to Tristan, no doubt taking in every detail of his appearance. “I can imagine,” he said flatly. “I am afraid this is not possible. The Emperor has requested to see you as soon as you arrive.”

“I see.” Dorian straightened up, brushing his palms over his robes, then shot Var Heid a contemptuous look. “Well? What are we waiting for?”

Var Heid sniffed as he turned around, leading them through the castle. Dorian rolled his eyes behind the steward’s back, his lips pursed in an annoyed frown. Damn it. He was beautiful even when he was irked. Perhaps even more so then. 

A sharp pang of bitterness drove through Tristan as he followed him through the narrow corridors, secretly wishing for Var Heid to take the long way to the Emperor's office.

A short while later, Tristan was walking back out of the palace, his coin pouch significantly heavier than it was before. The sun was setting, casting its waning golden light upon the world as he made his way to the stables. Almond neighed softly when she saw him, chewing on some fresh straw. He reached out, stroking her forehead, letting his gaze drift past the stable window, over the tall mountains in the distance.

So. It was him, Almond and the vast Continent once more.

“We’ll manage, won’t we, girl?” he whispered. “We always do.”

“Are you talking to… your horse?”

Tristan turned around at the sound of Dorian’s voice. The mage was leaning against the door of the stables, watching him. A soft smile spread on his features, interest flashing in his sterling grey eyes.

“I spend a lot of time on the road by myself,” Tristan replied. “One develops certain habits when they’re alone for so long.”

Dorian chuckled softly, pushing himself off the door. He sauntered towards him, hips swaying ever so slightly. “My initial assessment of you was correct, it seems. You _are_ sentimental.”

“So was mine,” Tristan retorted. “You _are_ mouthy.”

“Was that _really_ your initial assessment of me?”

They gazed at each other for a long moment before Dorian’s lips widened in a smile. Tristan let out a low, throaty laugh, letting his arms fall to his sides when Dorian took a step closer to him.

“So,” he said quietly, “this is it, isn’t it?”

Tristan's stomach tightened uneasily. Dorian's scent was hypnotizing, his lips so close to his, his eyes glittering, drawing him in. The light of the golden setting sun reflecting on his features, making him look as if he were aglow. Tristan ran his tongue over his bottom lip, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to take him into his arms, pull him down atop the hay and make love to him until the sun rose again. “I believe it is.”

Dorian’s finger trailed down his arm, sending shivers through him everywhere it touched. He leaned closer, brushing his lips against his. Tristan closed his eyes, tasting the spices on his tongue, drawing on his focus to discern every detail, every hidden undertone, etching the memory firmly in his mind. They kissed gently for a long moment, light touches that made Tristan’s skin prickle.

“Drop by sometime, will you?” he murmured against his lips, pushing a lock of hair behind Tristan’s ear.

“That is not up to me,” Tristan replied, a tinge of sorrow in his voice. “Witchers go where destiny takes them.”

Dorian brushed his nose over his. “You might be able to figure something out,” he whispered. “If that is what you want.”

Tristan leaned into his touch, helplessly drawn to him. He wanted to be close to him, as close as he could, for as long as he could. He reached out, fingers skimming his waist, itching to pull him into a tight embrace. With a soft sigh, Dorian took a step back. He held his gaze firmly, silver meeting slitted amber.

“So long, Tristan of Toussaint,” he said with a small bow of his head. He turned around, pausing to shoot him a glance over his shoulder. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Tristan stared after him, long after his form had disappeared around the stable doors. “So long,” he whispered to the swiftly approaching dusk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/). Come say hi!
> 
> Once again, special shoutout to my beloved friendo [HumblePeasant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumblePeasant/pseuds/HumblePeasant) for her help with brainstorming and for letting me pick her lovely brain about all sorts of medical stuff regarding Tristan's injury. If you enjoyed this fic, keep an eye out for the Witcher AU we are currently working on, featuring HumblePeasant's OC Maori/Solas, and my Tristan/Dorian! :D
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! xoxo


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